Running

It has been obvious that I've been more than a little absent from this space in the last few weeks.  Life has been busy, but I can not honestly say that this has been the only reason.  I think it has mostly been because I knew that coming to this space and putting my thoughts in black and white in front of me was going to be painful and I haven't felt strong enough to handle that recently.  I have thought about it a few times and felt a little guilty for not writing when I knew that I needed to, but lately the bad days seem to be winning.

When that happens, my first instinct is to run.  I avoid this blog and I avoid the majority of the babyloss community where I am usually able to take comfort and, in turn, offer it to others.  I have noticed that I have a tendency to withdraw from that facet of my life and focus my energy again on just making it through each day.  It is simply too painful to invite myself to open up wounds that are still healing, so I tend to try to ignore them.

There are a few problems with this approach.  First, if you choose to ignore an injury rather than tending it and allowing the opportunity for it to heal, it is just going to get worse.  Second, this approach runs right alongside the fast track to depression.  And lastly, it leaves you feeling alone and isolated.  And even though I don't mind the solitude sometimes, I'm afraid of staying in the spot where that is my preference.

It is a normal, human reaction to want to avoid that which is too painful to want to face head-on.  Unfortunately, it is really only a temporary solution.  Eventually, we are going to have to come back to coping with whatever it is that we have been hiding from.  At that point, odds are that you are going to find yourself with some messes to fix, some wrongs to correct and things to set upright again.

With all of that said, I think this is another one of those perfectly normal steps along the path of walking through one's grief.  There are times when you get to feel empowered and strong and in charge.  There are other times when you get to focus on the hard work of grieving and coping. And there are those times when it is all just too much and you have to hide.  As long as you continue to cycle through without getting stuck in one place too long, particularly that last one, you're probably doing it right.  We can't hide forever and we certainly can not be expected to shoulder all of this grief all day, every day. 

I can't and I won't apologize for taking the time that I need for myself.  Neither should you.

Don't Rush Us

Right now, I am angry - frustrated, appalled, upset and angry.

A close friend of mine, whose son was born with a fatal birth defect the same month as Aaron, was told today that she needed to "move on with her life," "grow up," and "get over it." What's worse, is that it was someone close to her who should have been offering kindness, support and love instead of harsh words and judgement. 

So let me be very clear when I say these next few things
  - When you have lost a child, you will never completely "move on." You may keep moving, but "moving on" is not in the vocabulary. 
  - When you have been through the experience of carrying, meeting and loving  your child who is going to die, you have "grown up" more in those 9-10 months than some people will do in 9-10 years.  You lose a part of yourself; you lose the sense of innocence that you used to have about pregnancy and babies and life; you lose the confidence that everything will turn out for the best. 
 - When your child dies, you will NEVER EVER "get over it."  You learn to live with the pain.  You figure out what it takes to make it to the end of each day.  You realize that there are things in life that are still worth living for.  But you will never "get over" the fact that you had to bury your child. Ever.

So please, if you have ever asked "What can I do to help?"...this is what you can do: Don't say these things to a person who is grieving, particularly if they are grieving the loss of a child.  These statements are not helpful.  They rip out that grieving parent's heart and serve only to make them feel more isolated and alone, because you have shown them that you aren't even trying.

It's been almost four months since she and I lost our sons.  Four months. We have a lifetime to carry the fact that one of our babies died...don't rush us. 

A Moment. A Lifetime. Three Months.

Three months.  It's been three months since I held my son.  Three months since he was born.  Three months since he died.

In a lot of ways, it has been a very long three months.  I have grown a lot and I have learned a lot.  Chris and I have faced a lot together in those three months and our relationship is decades older because of the experience we have shared.  I stop to look back and I have no idea how we have managed to survive these last ninety days - and some days, that was all we have managed to do...to simply survive.  We have reached that point where it is rare for anyone else to ask how we're doing and we are fully recognizing the incredible support we are blessed with in one another.  Gradually, there have been more days where the pain and the grief serve as more of a backdrop rather than taking center stage.  In that respect, it has been a long three months.

At the very same time, those three months often feel like the blink of an eye.  I recall every moment of his delivery so vividly that it feels like it happened yesterday.  I still have moments where I can almost feel him kicking me.  There are flashes every once in a while of what it would be like if our nighttime hugs included all three of my children.  There are times when the pain is so fresh and the need to feel him in my arms is so real that it is almost crushing me.  That is when those three months feel like a single breath.

I need you to understand that I am not the same person I used to be...I will never be her again.  I need you to realize that you are not always going to find the logic in what I say or what I do.  I need you to meet me where I am and allow me to be who I have to be right now to make it to the end of each day.

To you, it may only be three months (or six months or ten years) but for me - it is both a moment and a lifetime.  There will be times when I will feel the devastation throbbing like a brand new wound and there will be times when I can run my fingers over the scar in my soul without wincing.  There is no rhyme or reason to how I feel at any given moment and I am slowly learning to embrace whatever comes because that is really the only option I've been given.

All I ask is that you remember that no matter where you think I should be or how you think I should behave, it isn't up to you.  It just isn't.

"I Will Be."

I know that I've been quiet on here for a few weeks now and I wish I had a really good reason for that.  The honest explanation is that I just haven't really felt moved to write anything.  This past week has been one of the really bad ones and although I know those are the times when I really need to sit down and get some thoughts out...lately, those are the times when I am least likely to do it.

There hasn't been one specific thing that has me in a rut, but rather a combination of things I think.  Life had actually been going really well until a week or two ago, but then all of a sudden - it sort of seemed like we fell apart again.  I had my eight week check-up at the doctor (my actual six-week visit got postponed) - their office was wonderful as usual and they made the visit as easy as they could, but something about showing up to your postpartum visit with no baby is bound to unhinge the most stable mom at least a little bit.  That same week, Aaron would have been two months old (hence, the eight weeks) and it's hard not to think about what life with a two-month old would look like right now.

We also received the paperwork to get Aaron's memorial ordered.  The woman who designed it did a positively beautiful job and she worked so hard to make sure it is exactly what we wanted it to be (odd phrasing really, considering we don't want to have to be selecting one at all).  She walked us through the entire process, then spent time to custom-create an image because the one we selected wouldn't have worked very well on the stone we had chosen.  I simply can not say enough good things about working with her, but still...seeing his name in a sketch for his headstone is really really difficult.

Mother's Day is also looming in the not-so-distant future.  I have two beautiful, healthy, amazing little girls and I thank God for them every single day...but hear me clearly when I say this: That does not take away the pain of knowing that I don't get to celebrate Mother's Day with my only son.  I'm pretty sure that is a pain I will feel in every Mother's Day for the rest of my life. 

As for the girls, they have also been asking lately about when there is going to be another baby in Mommy's tummy so they can knock on it and feel baby "knock" back.  It is so cute and so sweet...and so gut-wrenchingly painful all at the same time.  I want them to have a baby sibling; I truly and sincerely do.  I want them to have Aaron.  We are reasonably sure that we will eventually have more children (on the good days, I'm certain...on days like today, it's just too scary to contemplate), but it wouldn't be for at least several more months to allow my body time to heal and the folic acid time to build up in my system. 

As I sit here with tears streaming down my face, I have to confess that I had a different last paragraph typed up for this post...I always argue with myself when it comes to posting anything about the bad days (I've said before that the reason I do it is because it isn't fair to only share the good times).  Chris came in and asked me "Are you alright?"  Without thinking, my first response was "I will be." As soon as the words left my mouth I actually felt a little better and took a few minutes to process that.

I will be sad.
I will be heartbroken.
I will be depressed.
I will be angry.
I will be hopeful.
I will be healing.
I will be joyful.
I will be grateful.

I will be okay.

Frogs

I don't necessarily have anything inspirational or amazing to share tonight, but I had to share an experience I had this afternoon with Aaron's big sisters. 

We went to Hobby Lobby to pick up a few things I needed for bracelets and ended up browsing the store, like we usually do...because, really, who doesn't love Hobby Lobby?? We wandered over to the outdoor decorations area and I asked if the girls wanted to pick out something special to take to the cemetery for Baby Aaron next time we go.  They were thrilled!! Tori immediately spotted one of the big center islands decked out in frog decor and snatched up one of the little guys.  She ended up passing that one off to Abby and choosing another one of her own. 

I suggested we keep walking to see if there was anything else they thought Baby Aaron might like or if they thought he'd like to keep the frogs.  So Tori holds her frog as high as she can toward the ceiling and yells, "BABY AARON!!!  DO YOU LIKE THESE FROGS?!?!" ... ... "Yes, Momma he says he likes these."  :)  So then Abby yells, "Baby Aawon!! Like deese??"  (Sadly, Abby's first frog had a bit of a frog-tastrophe and met with an untimely demise when she dropped him.  She was a tad devastated, but the worker was very kind and we found that frog's identical twin instead.  She clutched him tightly to her chest through the rest of the store telling me "Breakaful. Breakaful."  He was safe until we reached the cashier where she got distracted and dropped him too...thankfully, this one survived with only a missing toe from that unwise leap.)

The girls also discovered a shiny blue pinwheel that they thought Aaron might like...so we left the store with two little frogs and a shiny pinwheel.  :)

I can only imagine what our conversation must have sounded like to anyone else who overheard...a year ago, I'm not sure what I would've thought about a young mother and her two little ones talking so calmly about buying things to take to a baby brother in the cemetery.  On one hand, I hate knowing that my girls are already so familiar with death.  On the other hand, it has given us so many opportunities to help them learn and grow.  They are young enough to ask whatever is on their minds without being embarrassed or inhibited, so we are able to truly address where they are at any given moment.  And although they say occasionally that they are "sad about Baby Aaron" or that they miss him, they seem so happy for him to be with God and Grandma in Heaven. They don't see it as something to be afraid of; it's just the way it is for them. 

I know that the girls have helped us cope with Aaron's death in so many ways; this is just one of them.  Their unfailing confidence in his happiness in Heaven is astounding.  We should all be so lucky. 

Still Standing

I know my updates are a little infrequent these days.  I don't really have a good explanation for it other than the fact that I just haven't had any ideas come to me that seemed like they were worth sharing.

Yesterday, however, I had one of those experiences where an entry just kind of writes itself in my head while I'm supposed to be doing something else.  I usually try to make sure those get published, because I assume there is a reason that they have written themselves.

I recently had a bit of a confrontation with someone in my life who was contemplating making some pretty destructive decisions in the face of intense stress.  We had talked at length regarding all of the things leading up to these decisions and the consequences of making specific choices.  It became apparent throughout the course of a number of conversations that this individual considered suicide as the only solution to the problems at hand.

Finally, I simply said, "You remember that baby I was pregnant with?  He died.  We have known since October that he was going to die and he was stillborn almost six weeks ago.  And I'm still standing here.  It has been the hardest thing I have ever gone through.  It has sucked and I would never wish that pain on anyone.  I know that things are awful for you right now too and I know you are struggling with all that you are facing.  I understand what it is like for things to suck and to not know what you are supposed to do.  I realize that you feel like this is your only choice, but I am standing here going through the crappiest thing I have ever experienced but I'm still standing here.  I'm not asking you not to kill yourself; I'm asking you to give yourself some time.  I'm asking you to wait until things don't suck so much and you aren't overwhelmed by everything you are facing.  If you still want to die at that point, then we can talk again but at least then I'll know that you aren't making a decision out of desperation."

It's not the most orthodox approach to someone in crisis, and I typically wouldn't share something so personal in that context...but sometimes there are situations where someone is able to benefit from hearing something spoken from the heart regardless of whether or not it is what you are "supposed to" say.

And I think that is the main reason that I am so compelled to share this story.  I still think about the mommy friend of mine who committed suicide at the beginning of the year and I think about the countless other moms, myself included, who sometimes struggle to make it to the end of the day.  It's normal and it's painful and it's hard to do, but I'm proud to still be standing at the end of the day (because, let's face it...even on the days when we have to sit down for a bit...we're still standing).

Normal

Please don't tell me that you "hope things are getting back to normal."  I know that you mean well and I'm sure that you say this simply because you aren't sure what else to say.  Believe me, I wish things could be normal.  I wish that I was rocking my five week old son to sleep right now instead of typing about coping with life after his death. But the reality is this:  Our lives will never be "normal" again.

We are functioning and we are working on finding a new routine for our family.  We are finding ways to cope with our grief and ways to brace ourselves for the days when the pain becomes overwhelming.  We work to find ways for the girls to remember their little brother while trying to make sure that his death doesn't scare them. 

These things are part of what has become "normal" for us now...but when you tell us that you "hope things are getting back to normal," you have no idea what that means.  There will always be a part of us that is missing and there will always be a scar in our hearts for the son we didn't get to keep.

For what it's worth, I wouldn't want things to "go back to normal."  That would be like acting that Aaron never existed.  He did.  It would be like saying that he isn't loved as much as our other children.  He is.  It would be like pretending that he hasn't changed our lives in a profound way.  He has.

We don't need the pain to go away or the tears to stop.  There is no shame in either of those things, but it would be nice for the pain to ease and the tears to lessen.  It's okay to be hurt and it's okay to need to cry; the ache and the tears will be with us for the rest of our lives.  But that doesn't mean that we can't be joyful or that we can't celebrate the blessings we are given.  We don't need to "return to normal" to feel happy; our "new normal" simply means making room for the grief alongside the joy.